


Dissonance

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt, F/F, Not Canon Compliant, POV Second Person, Phone Calls & Telephones, Season/Series 07, baby mama drama: the fic, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-03-17 15:55:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18968467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: These conversations over the phone never quite go as planned. You hunger for the beginning, for familiarity, for her.





	1. i lift my eyes

**Author's Note:**

> The vagrant use of "you" (the second person) places the reader into the character's shoes, their skin, but in this circumstance, it's not the type of fantasy fulfillment you're looking for. 
> 
> That being said, I decided to do my own take on warping the canon of season six with an interpretation of what could happen in season seven. Basically, I wanted to write my own FT S7 spin-off. 🤷
> 
> Apologies for the radio silence. I was rather busy with my studies. Hope this fic satisfies the audience's hunger. I'll be writing quite a few Joan & Vera fics over the summer. :) Enjoy!

Unable to sit still, the restless nighttime ritual commences. Each lock and every bolt gets checked once, twice, thrice. With the windows properly secured, you putter towards the door. Your wrist twists, your hand resembling an unfurled claw before grasping the knob. It shimmies, it shakes. The warm, summer air is a slap to the face. Outside, no magpies grace your step.

You close the door one last time. No point in chasing ghosts.

With your back facing the past, you check on a bundle swaddled in pink and grey. Across the wall, a cherry blossom tree sprawls. Stands tall in an encouragement of growth. The nursery contains a black crib and from above, a mobile spins ‘round and ‘round. Deer prance, the wolves struggle to catch up. Bubba sleeps soundly, peacefully, in her crib. Her pink, button nose – her inheritance from you – wiggles. Watching her fills you with joy. Soothes your aching spirit that never quite healed from all the hurt: a wound that festers and oozes inside.

You hope to give your child the life you never had. Your daughter will never be the butt of some cruel, cosmic joke. Shadows from the crib form bars reaching towards you. You knot your fingers into the fabric of your shirt, wrinkling beneath your touch. Though relief relaxes your shoulders, you still experience an indescribable hunch that turns your stomach, mirroring the mobile’s steady pace. The body changes after motherhood. So does the mind.

Comforted by the sight of your child safe and sound, you back away. A small smile kisses your lips. A teddy bear with a vibrant red ribbon snoozes beside her. His button eyes gleam with joy. You leave your sunshine in the dark.

You check your phone and glance at the time, just short of midnight. Though it’s late, you abide by the nightcap’s law. Pinot Grigio fills the glass to the brim. You need it; Wentworth has you entrapped in a web. Once, the governorship was your holy goal and now, it’s a bloody farce.

Victory lies within the fact that you’ve gained sole custody over Cora J. Bennett. By proxy, Jake has fucked off to a place only the Devil knows.

At the kitchen table, you sink into the cherry wood seat. Your elbow skirts across the gleaming surface. You want to leave behind Wentworth, behind this loveless home you grew up in, but you can’t. Codependency makes you a flightless bird. You’ll drink to that. Alone with your regrets, it burns on the way down.

In the midst of introspection, your phone goes off. It buzzes, it screams, and so, you seek to silence the call. Once upon a time, an unknown caller would have made you incredibly anxious. Now, you relish these brief conversations. Even look forward to them.

“Vee-rah,” she drawls out your name as if she owns it, owns you, and despite all the melodrama, you still wish that was the case.

It’s 10 AM in America, give or take.

“Yes.” 

You sound tired, resigned to swallow the bitter pill that is your fate. It’s a testament to becoming a slave to the daily grind, worn down and bent out of shape. You brush back the frizz of your hair. Bruises hang below your watery blue eyes.

In an hour approaching paranoia and devils, she calms your heart. Your peach-fuzz cheek brushes against the screen. A sheepish grin touches your mouth in ways she used to.

“She loves the teddy. Thank you.”           

Joan has left you with more than a gift, but an offering to dear Persephone who braved the Underworld and did more than survive: you bloody well thrived. You can no longer wish ill upon the Devil; that woman’s had her penance. 

You help yourself to the nightcap. It’s not the alcohol that warms your chest. For good measure, you take a longer sip. You struggle to swallow, to breathe. Sometimes, conversations with a ghost run smoothly. Other times, they’re downright caustic, ending in tears, and an abrupt hang up. When she calls again, you both choose to acknowledge nothing rather than something. You wonder what kind will ensue this evening.

“An innocent child deserves sweetness,” she chimes.

Complacent, you agree. A steady nod that she can’t see. Ever since the kangaroo court, her voice has become throaty. Scratched raw. Downright beastly.

A million questions leave you just as they have plagued your mind in the daylight and the still, painful hours of the lonely night. Your relationship with Joan is strained, newly erected from the dust of respite and unrequited want.

“Will I ever see you again?”

You wonder if Joan harbors guilt. Surely, she must, with the warped sentiment of child support that comes, though you hardly seem to mind. It’s her presence that you miss most. Somewhere, in the midst of this conversation, your glass becomes half-empty. The condensation drips and makes a bloody mess out of the table.

“In another life, perhaps.”

Damn her riddles.

All this misalliance runs you down. The war’s neither been lost or won, but frozen in stasis. Perhaps even seceded, surrendered to the unlawful Kangaroo Court. The fighting doesn’t exist, it’s faded, so fucking faded, just as you are jaded.

Half-expecting a phantom projected onto glass, you turn towards the window. You forget about your drink. In a far-off land, it’s winter when it ought to be summer. There, December is calloused and cold with the promise of black ice.

Before you can take it back, the words come tumbling out. It’s too late to mop up the spillage from your mutually inflicted toxicity. 

“There’s a grave for you here.”

“And do you visit it?” The sharpness of her tone makes you flinch. You can taste her resentfulness. 

“I bought the plot. I do- I do visit, because I, well,” you stutter, reminiscent of the nervous Nellie you used to be.

A scoff. You imagine the proverbial hand jutting out to cut you off. It takes you back to _her_ \- not yours, never yours - office.

“Beside your mother?”

Kindness is forgiveness. Forgiveness is key. You choose to ignore the jab.

“The DNA results were inconclusive. Tampered with. I just thought… I hoped this would bring closure to everyone.” You hate how clinical that sounds on the tip of your tongue. Your stomach curdles. “I don’t want to fight, Joan.”

The image of a tyrannical oppressor caked in mud haunts you. No, not Ferguson. Just Joan. Joan who facilitated your growth, Joan who helped you take care of your mother, Joan who drank and laughed with you and smiled at you.

Pressing your scrunched face to the phone doesn’t make her any closer.

A long pause follows, accompanied by a heavy sigh. From whom remains unknown. There’s a music in silence, a crushing defeat that’s swallowed in a tense gulp. Sometimes, you believe the line to be dead.

“How are you sustaining yourself?”

You're worried. Your spine curves from the weight of your stress.

“Survival is second nature to me,” she says so matter-of-factly.

You don’t recognize this ghost of a shell. What happened to the ambitious woman you used to know?

This industry shapes you (and her), makes you, breaks you (did it break her?), and remolds you. Your thumbnail picks at a pill attached to your shirt. The longer you remain perched in your seat, the more your hips ache. Home becomes your cage.

Mechanically, you rise. Bare feet pad across the cool, waxed, tiled floor. Trembling fingers prod past the curtains. You separate the blinds, splitting them apart.There’s nothing outside. The lonesome tree with its gnarled branches means you no harm. You’ve already gone through the ritual of locking all the doors, of protecting your young.

“Let me see you,” you persist, beg, plead, scrambling to reassemble a bridge burned down threefold. “I’ll bring her with me. We can get away. Start fresh.”

Your breath hitches.

Ash seizes the phoenix’s tongue. The two of you stopped trying to be martyrs ages ago. This goes against narrative without saying.

“Let the dead sleep.” Her voice crackles though you attribute it to the lonely, great distance. 

Goddamn her. That bloody hurts. You feel the needle sink deep into your heart. It rips a hole in your soul and you know that something’s (answer: her, it’s always her) been missing for awhile.

Mistaken for a lull in conversation, the call dips. The static pulls you under. You choke down her venom, only left to grieve. Fine baby-hairs cling to the nape of your neck. Your hands are clammy, your heart heavy. Caught by a loose fist, vinegar tears slip away. It takes you a minute to realize that you’re crying. The salty sting pours over your cheeks. You can't stop your pathetic sniffling. 

Tonight, the brevity of conversation tears a hole in you. Your lashes flutter and from beneath your swollen lids, you recollect her proud, stern profile: the slope of her nose, the slight curve of her mouth. Her shadow, her presence, her memory perpetually looms behind you. You, Vera, have come to understand her hatred. It doesn’t suffocate you like the insipid nagging from your vulture of a mother.

Midnight beckons revelations, revolutions, and the purest truth despite the bitterness. Your heart rattles in your chest. You’ve always been a hopeless romantic. These dramatic descriptions - these over-inflated metaphors - must mean _something_.

Apostles struggle to deliver messages. You hunger for the beginning, for familiarity, for her. You’ve been carved out, hollowed to make way for some dangerous thing: a weapon no one could handle. 

“I’m sorry, Joan. For everything.”

Breath fogs the glass, as clouded as your distorted judgment. Along the warped way, Joan becomes deified.

You hear a soft mewl resonate from another room. The mother in you begins to stir.

“I have to go.”

She lets you go, all petty victories a lost cause.

“Goodbye, Vera.”

It feels like being stood up without the acknowledgment. Alone, you carry through mundane routine. Set your phone down on the counter, rushing into the nursery. You scoop little Cora up into your arms which flex, all muscle and sinew to support your Atlas grief. You hold your baby close, comforted by her soft cooing as she dozes in your arms. You take in her fresh, clean scent, nuzzling the crown of her head with your nose. The shadow on the wall consoles you. Makes you wish that she was beside you, together as a team and much more. 


	2. i slow my gait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A million miles away and you maintain your merciless hold. The dead don't sleep though you try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, Joan's POV for the second chapter.

America, to you, is sunshine, escape, and wasted opportunity. You have abandoned your precious post, but you remind yourself that this is not abandonment, it’s survival. You, grizzled medveditsa, buried your tale in that wooden coffin, sealed by Will Jackson, the man you loathed.

Daylight promises new beginnings. So, where’s yours? Despite your departure, you find yourself in limbo. Sturdy cardboard cup in hand, you enter the park, its stone walkway caked in the snow’s muddy residue. In bitterness, you reflect on the men who sought to cast you down, as if you were a monster from a horror show. Your militant father taught you this lonely soldier’s march; still, your stride is a purposeful one.

Swathed in layers, this has nothing on Siberia’s frost. A charcoal turtleneck, a heavy winter coat, and its tundra arsenal (the usual suspects, the necessary staples) keep you warm. Snow either freezes or melts; there’s no in-between. In broad daylight, you’ve the gall to sit outside. No one acknowledges you; you’re a ghost, after all. The wooden park bench is a shadow of a cry from your leather throne. Beside you, your coffee - as black as your soul - begins to cool.

Your days would be simpler if you could thumb through one of Pushkin’s books solely for enjoyment.

That heavy, grey wool scarf is another noose much too snug around your throat. Leather gloves crease and moan, you crook your fingers. You whip out your phone that changes alongside the places you stay. Though a hermit by cause, you’ve become nomadic by necessity. The tension of a tourniquet represents your inability to let go. There’s a moment of hesitation before you phone in.

“Hello, Vee-rah.”

You say her name. Your throat aches in a horrible, perpetual thirst that so, too, followed the ambition of mad queens. Trauma has a way of changing you. You despise the loss of control; weakness is at the base of loss, after all.

She will not hear the first part, only her name, a sonorous lullaby that slips out thicker than oil.

“Yes,” she mumbles, exhausted in the midnight hour.

Often, these calls seldom last long. Other times, you listen to her breathing and believe it’s her heart that you hear still beating. You try to bury these deplorable feelings. There is no “I love” or “I wish” or “I want.” These cannot be. Ivan the Terrible recognized your flawed design and contributed to your reprogramming: your code responds better to cruelty, to distance.

Your hair’s pulled back into a restrictive ponytail, turned to iron though you feel like rust. How it tugs at your scalp, begging to be set free. Your jaw clenches and steels. Perhaps Vera hopes for the same. Communication is a bargain, a gamble.

With her, it feels a little less like hell.

“She loves the teddy. Thank you.”

At the prospect, you swell with pride. The freezing cold burns your cheeks. Tints them a rosy hue. The remainder of your personage has left you pining, has ensnared you in the past which ripples: Jianna and Shayne, Anderson and her baby, Vera and her child, precious Cora. You can’t seem to break free.

“An innocent child deserves sweetness,” you respond after a moment’s hesitation.

Once, you sought to usurp your pathetic underling, to pick her apart to scrutinize all that muscle, bone, and crippling insecurities. Your mission suffered a setback. In your own way, you cared for her.

Call this what it is: a faded reckoning for a lonely phantom.

A black lab darts by, tugging its master along, determined to reach whatever end it nobly pursues.

“Will I ever see you again?” Vera changes the subject. Cuts through the remnants of your rotten soul.

From beneath your pursed lips, you lick your teeth; they remain as sharp as your words. Perfect discipline prohibits your voice to waver. Sentencing yourself to reimagined solitary confinement, you swallow the lump in your throat known as grief.

“In another life, perhaps.”

Instinctively, you push away. Perched on the bench, you refuse to let poor posture get to you. Statuesque, your spine straightens so that you’re posed with the austerity of a judge before the final, cool verdict. 

“There’s a grave for you here.”

She lands her blow, only to be supported by her characteristic rambling. The plot she paid for, the weekly visits, but you remain stuck on the burial: the dirt seeping into that makeshift cotton, your desperate cries, your nails run ragged and bloody from your scratching until you swallowed your panic and became reacquainted with reason.

You escaped.

She buried you.

Vera’s no saint in this holy crusade. Your mousy little Judas betrayed you and with the passage of time, you fail to surrender this revelation. It’s in your nature to antagonize. As if you’ve set foot on the proverbial chessboard, you choose your following words wisely.

She didn’t bury you.

“Beside your mother?” You snark.

You were more than a maternal figure to Vera. You were _something_ – something left unsaid with lingering glances in the halls, heated touches in your palace of an office, and a coded language you had both spoken.

Admit it. You miss the chase.

Collateral damage sticks to you. Ruin procures a ripple effect. A fever consumes you, even your blood sings. You’re far beyond repair, beyond salvaging, beyond grace. Your breath slithers out in vapid bursts.

Joggers speed by. Despite being surrounded by life, you feel alone.

She throws out themes like ‘closure’ which compliments her savior-complex: her need to rise above her pathetic rankings with prisoner produced works of art adorning her – your – office. There’s so much venom clinging to your tongue. You expect acid to burn it all way.

“How are you sustaining yourself?” She asks and the telltale sign of concern seeps into her tone. You despise how it sounds too close to pity.

Even the rustling of branches without their leaves unsettles you now. Your shoulders grow tense. For better or for worse, you’ve undergone a chameleon change. Once crooked, always bent, so it goes; you don’t seek atonement. 

“Survival is second nature to me,” you rasp in a mocking voice that claims to know all.

On the phone, you maintain your distance. A ringing assaults your ears, a low hum that fades away into oblivion.

“Let me see you,” she pleads, clinging to the scraps.

A part of you died with Jianna, a part of you died in the yard. So, what’s left to give?

“Let the dead sleep.”

You touch your chest, dismissive of the pain that dwells there.

Congratulations. You’ve wounded the mouse, the doe, the woman on the other end.

“I’m sorry, Joan. For everything.”

All apologies, she seeks for forgiveness and for once, you don’t find yourself worthy. There’s no mending this. It boils down to one of you being right and one of you being wrong though the lines are warped. The root base of your being aspires to inflict more damage, to pine for carnality, to hurt and manipulate in the worst way imaginable. What a meticulous web you have woven.

You fall silent. Your watch ticks on. The snow around your feet melts. Choked up, you fault it on the aftermath of your untimely demise. Risen from the ashes, you flew away from your reckoning to begin another chapter, but you can’t seem to let her go. Nothing breaks the cycle of codependency: she needs you, you need her. 

No letter mailed through the post excuses your actions, those done out of necessity, practicality, and spite.

In the distance, you hear a soft mewling cry. The child takes precedence. As did Shayne, as did Joshua. This time, Cora will not be a pawn in your game.

“I have to go,” she says abrupt, all grief and longing never quite snuffed out.

You close your eyes to blot out the sun.

“Goodbye, Vera.”

You sing her name one last time. 

When you stand, your joints issue a feeble protest.

“You won,” you declare once the line goes dead, unable to be resuscitated just as she had once breathed life into you. Your savior, your ruin, your Vera who was never quite yours. 

Tomorrow, you’ll send a postcard from Chicago. In five years, you mail two one-way tickets to America.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> medveditsa = she-bear

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter titles are a tribute to lyrics from Chelsea Wolfe's "Spun."
> 
> The second chapter will be Joan's perspective.


End file.
